


the perfect disease

by huffspuffsblows



Category: Meteor Methuselah | Immortal Rain
Genre: Gen, shmoopy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-30 19:19:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13958283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huffspuffsblows/pseuds/huffspuffsblows
Summary: We all need someone to drive us mad, don't we? Luckily Yuca has two of them.





	the perfect disease

  
  
Though countless things have changed, and a soft calm blankets them, more things remain the same [the more things change, the more they flitter away like snow-flowers in a wind that whips his bones, rattled in his meat-skin].

The bed’s barely big enough for two, let alone one and two quarters of people. Even less when he thrashes away, limbs flailing and mouth dropped into a gasp that shudders through the mattress as if Yuca is an earthquake [isn’t he, though]. In the dim lighting in the room dark lashes arch in a perfect mimicry of the teen’s back as he comes down, eyes unseeing until gradually, gradually, the sun begins to peek through.

[a boar manages to get away from the wrath of his spear; grandfather’s sick, wasting away like animal skin within bones, but he takes the trip to town every day; you won’t win this time, I’ve recalibrated this--]

Or it could be the larger hand that smothers his own, knobby-knuckled fingers tracing over thin veins and cold flesh. Yuca hadn’t even known he’d reached out until that flash of warmth held, just for him.

“I’m right here, you know,” Rain calls softly through the void of his mind, of the abyss that is time—stifling, engulfing all around it. If Machika is a thunderstorm then Rain truly is his namesake. He is the soft pattering of rain atop a tin roof.

[and Yuca, in essence, is nothing—voice as lonely as loud]

In a drizzle it’s quite easy to allow drops to sink into your clothes, your skin, your tongue. Navigating it as it curves, makes room, for you. Which is precisely why it’s so easy for Yuca to sink his teeth into the curve of Rain’s palm.

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist or a mad scientist to calculate the drama that stems from this. Yelping and cursing and going as far as to shake Yuca off, Rain practically upheaves the entire bedspread with his technique.

“What the HELL?! You’re as bad as Kiki! I was only trying to….” Blue-green eyes sparked with pain squint as he lets his words trail off, taking in Yuca’s equally ruffled appearance.

[Why, why, why is it, no matter what he does, still, still, Rain is the first to reach out]

Warm fingers cup his face just in time for a simultaneous pillow attack. Downfeathers float around a halo of blonde hair, Machika glares at them, puffy eyed from sleep and grumpy mouthed.  
To add insult to injury, she clotheslines them, two short arms across their chests. The whump effect, comically enough. When they settle, and they do, smothered in linens and her scent, starchy detergent and pine, they curl together as one. Skin to skin, as close as possible, as if truly one.

[aren’t they?]

“Your name’s Yuca. You’re here with us. You’re here, you’re here, you’re here,” she says, like a prayer, and smooths the blankets over them. Yuca almost believes it. If she is with them, he can see how People are Rain’s Gods.

His eyes shut as she adds, “And you’re both dumbasses.”

But two hands curl around his, one knobby-fingered and the other calloused and sure and slim, and for a mere moment his head is clear.


End file.
